


Easy Target

by moral_objections



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst, High School, M/M, Religion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-29 00:30:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16252922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moral_objections/pseuds/moral_objections
Summary: Ryan Ross has a problem. Well, a few, as a matter of fact. For one, his dad has signed him up to conversion therapy. And two, he can't stop thinking about the boy he met there.





	Easy Target

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic. All criticism is welcome. Thank you.
> 
> If you have been in conversion therapy, this fic may be triggering.

“Ryan! Down here, right now!”

I sigh and slowly get up to pause the cd that I had playing. He’s been calling for the past half an hour, but I know if I ignore him any longer then he’ll probably break my jaw. Wouldn’t put it past Dad, especially when he’s drunk.

That is to say, always.

I round the hallway, anxiety welling. He’s standing up near the dinner table, practically foaming from the mouth and the glare he promptly directs at me is far from paternal. I decide to take a seat.

“I’ve signed you up for conversion therapy.”

“What the fuck?’

“Watch your fucking language, boy, or I’ll throw you out of my house.” He growls. 

I watch him, my gaze laced with bitter anger. “Why the hell did you sign me up to that? I’m not gay!”  
God, of course I’m not. It was one time…

To my surprise, he smirks.

“Of course, straight guys always make out with other guys. Ryan, don’t lie to yourself. You need help – it’s an abomination.” He clears his throat and continues before I can get a word in. “They can help. I’ve booked you at this place that has cured every guy who’s been there. Maybe then you can finally live up to God’s standards.”  
At some point, I stop listening to his rant. I hear the same thing every day at my school. How my Dad managed to not blow my catholic private school money on booze, I’ve yet to figure out. I do tune back in for the last part of his speech, however.

“You’re going to be there until this… thing is completely cured. And you can’t act like it’s suddenly gone away, either, because you’ll be attending for at least a year.”  
Great, just great.

I storm off, feet thumping on the carpet loudly over my dad’s voice. Throw myself onto bed. What the hell did I do in a past life to deserve this shit? It’s ridiculous… I was at a party, I wasn’t thinking straight (in every sense of the word). Fuck. I roll over on my bed.

“Listen here. Your first session is tomorrow, on Monday. You’re not getting out of it. I don’t care if you have the plague, you’ll be there.” His voice is muffled by the door but not enough to be unintelligible. That bastard. Of course he goes and signs me up for this as soon as he sees something remotely homosexual. Not that I’m like that, of course.

I briefly consider writing some lyrics before I sleep, but I’m too irrationally angry at everything. Scratch that, it is rational – who would want their Dad to sign them up for conversion therapy unwillingly? Especially if they’re straight. Like me.

I melt into my covers, exhausted.

 

I’ve just about left school when I run into my least favorite person. Spencer’s in my class and has somehow deluded himself into thinking that he and I are friends.

“Hey Ryan! Want to come over to my house today?”

“Uh, no, sorry… I’ve actually got something on today.”

“Oh, cool! What is it? Can I come along?” His blue eyes insistently bore into mine.

Jesus Christ. I can see it now – walking into therapy with that overly-happy caricature of a regular person. They’d probably think I’m fucking him.

“It’s, um, kind of personal?” His mouth curves downward. “I actually need to head there now.”

“Oh, well, see you tomorrow, Ryan!” Smiling again. Doesn’t his face get sore?

I practically bound out the door, thankfully, without Spencer at my heels. In a way, I’m almost thankful for my (albeit unwilling) obligation if it means can get away from Spencer “Satan” Smith. I keep glancing back behind me while I’m walking home, however. I don’t trust that fucker not to stalk me secretly.

I’m soaked with rain by the time I get home, shoving myself at my front door to try and not die from hypothermia.

“Finally decided to come home, fag?”

I groan.

He’s sitting at the table, holding a half empty bottle of vodka. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say he’s planning on finishing the bottle on the way to therapy.

I sling the backpack off and onto the floor near the hallway, glancing up. We make eye contact.

“What time do we have to leave for the therapy session?” I say carefully.

He stands up abruptly and stomps over, his eyes flashing. My father is barely two inches away from me but he still raises his voice when he says;  
“Did I say you could fucking talk to me?!”

Thud.  
My body lands on the floor, the effect of a well-practised right hook duly noted. My face throbs with pain, exacerbated by the kick that follows soon after.

“Get your ass off the floor, or we’ll be late,” he slurs and storms off towards the car.

I cringe at his tone and try to pick myself back up.

“Shit,” I mutter quietly, low enough for him not to pick it up and start the whole cycle again.

I graze over the bruise forming on my face and wince a little. Nothing too bad, although my cheek will be bruised for a week or two. Even though I desperately want to run, run far away from my life, I stumble towards the garage, trying to hold back tears.

 

The first thing I noticed after we started driving – apart from the fact that the pain had gotten worse – was that I was right.  
Dad seemed to be trying to set a world record for ‘quickest time to finish a bottle of vodka in order to drown out all your emotions because of your disappointment of a son’. I’m tempted to laugh in sadly sadistic fashion, and I might – well, except for the fact that smiling makes my pain rating go from 7 to 294.

Miraculously, dad pulls into the parking lot of the clinic without crashing into anything. We stumble out of the car, earning dirty looks from a few passers-by who must be able to smell the alcohol on him. Normally this might bother me, but today I’m too busy worrying about what I might be subjected to tonight.

We walk into the reception and I’m struck by how eerily clean it is – almost all white. It smells, nay, it reeks of air freshener. It seems cold and sad – not unlike the people waiting for appointments. One boy catches my eye; longish near-black brown hair and dark, melancholy eyes. He has a unique face, young but mature. Somehow.

“Hello, how can I help you?” The woman at the desk inquires politely.

“My son has an appointment at 8. Dr. Andrews, I think.” Dad slurs, hand closing around an invisible bottle.

“Excellent. Take a seat over there, it’ll only be a few minutes.” She addresses me, smiling.

I turn to my father. “I’ll see you then.”

He nods and stumbles out. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

I wander over the couch with the boy, still looking at the floor. I stare intently at the wall, willing time to slow down or… maybe even stop altogether? Yes. That would be good.

“You know… if you keep staring that hard at the wall, I think you might burn a hole in it.” A melodic voice remarks.  
The boy from before has looked up. I smile.

“I’ll try and avoid it. I don’t want to be sued or anything.”

He laughs quietly, smiling for the first time since I walked in.

“Ross?” A low voice asks the room, so I stand up.

I glance back at the boy.

“It’s Brendon, by the way.” The way his lips move to form his name is strangely hypnotizing.

“Brendon?”

“Yeah.”

“See you around.”

I walk into the office, slightly less annoyed about what’s to come, Brendon’s brown eyes lingering in my memory. I smile.

“Ryan, right?” He gestures to a chair pulled to one side of a desk and I sit on the uncomfortable seat.

“Yeah, that’s me.” I say uncomfortably.

“Now, I heard from your father that you engaged in some homosexual activity recently. I trust you know how wrong that is. How long have you had these urges?” He questions nonchalantly, pushing his glasses up.

“What? I never… I’m not gay or anything.” What does he think he’s talking about?

“Ryan, look. You can’t get rid of this if you don’t co-operate.” He sighs exasperatedly. “Why would kiss another man if you’re straight?”

“I was drunk, okay? I’m not gay.”

“Have you ever had a girlfriend?”

“No, but-“

“Have you ever asked a girl out?”

“No, but-“

“Had a crush on a girl?”

I stay silent. Technically, no. I mean, I’ve always just assumed that the girls at my school weren’t my type.  
Shit, this isn’t going to look good.

“See? We can fix this, okay? Being gay is wrong, it-“

“Why? Why is it wrong?”

He stares me in the eye and says;  
“It’s against God, it’s unholy, disgusting. Homosexuality is a abomination. Anyone who is gay is a sinner and a vile sodomite. This is why you’re here, you need help, Ryan.”

I run out of the room, out the back door into the car park. Fall down against the wall. Bury my head in my hands. God, why I am like this? Surely I’m not a sinner, an abomination… I can’t be gay. Just because I don’t like any girls and, God, just because that one time-

“Are okay?” It’s Brendon, eyes narrowed in concern.

“Of course I’m not! That doctor, Andrews, I think? He keeps fucking saying that… God, I’m not. I’m not an abomination, right?” I rant. “I’m just… so confused.”

He kneels next to me, eyes softly locked with mine. “I know, I know. It’s your first session, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I was confused, too. Still am, really. It’s scary.” He sighs deeply. “If you don’t mind me asking, what happened for you to start coming here?”

“Well… I was at this party, and I was kind of drunk. I kind of ended making out with this guy from a neighboring school.” I admit. “My dad came to pick me up and he saw… that.”

“Oh.” His eyes widen. “Bad timing, huh?”

“Unbelievably. I’m still confused about it. It’s the only gay experience I’ve had… but I’ve never liked a girl. I don’t know, really.”

He nods sadly. “I remember why I have to be here. I was hooking up with this guy from school in my room and my mom walked in. A bit of a turn off.” He laughs. “The guy – his name’s Brent, I think? – was moved away by his parents and I, of course, got sent here.”

“Oh, wow. How long have you been coming here?”

“Mmm…” He counts on his fingers. “Four months, maybe?”

“Wow, that’s a long time. My dad said I have to be here for at least a year.”

“So I will be seeing you around, then?”

“Guess so.”

He stands up slowly, straightening his shirt. Looks up.

“You should head back in. I know,” He adds looking at the shock on my face. “It’s scary and confusing, but he’ll be worse if you just leave.”

“Thank you.” He’s surprised. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“No worries.” He pulls out a pen and paper. Scribbles something and puts it in my pocket. “If you want to talk more.” He adds and we walk back in.

I open his door.

“Aah! You are back.” Dr. Andrews looks up. “Staying this time, I hope?”

“Yeah,” Guess so.

“You do understand why I’m saying this, right? Deep down, you know what you feel is wrong.”

“I don’t know, really. I’m pretty confused.” I confess.

“Being confused is fine. We can fix this, Ryan. You can be normal.”

Can I? Really?

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. All comments and kudos are appreciated.


End file.
